Reunion
by Succi
Summary: Molly's class reunion goes exactly as Sherlock has predicted: bad, really bad. So where's the knight in shining Belstaff? – Sherlolly, what else? ;-)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I am back! Sorry I did not PM back / review… in August, but having a job where I have to be available 24/7 makes me a bit of a recluse in terms of social media when on vacation.**

 **This is a short, fluffy cliché of a fic. I just needed a little break from the angsty crime story I'm currently working on. Enjoy! Hopefully...**

 **Thank you to Pipsis for being brilliant and beta-ing this in record time!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own** _ **Sherlock**_ **or the two lines I borrowed from** _ **The Hound of the Baskervilles**_ **with Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce.**

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"Don't worry, Molly, I won't make you late for your school reunion."  
Molly stopped pretending to do some paperwork and looked into the direction where the world's only consulting detective sat at his favourite microscope, conducting an experiment about God knew what. Likely something equally "essential" as his study on tobacco ash.

The pathologist stared at him, a bit surprised at his ability to read her mind, but he kept looking into the microscope, ignoring her.

Molly had just been about to retrieve her bag from her office, when Sherlock Holmes had strode in and ruined her plans of leaving on time. She had changed back from her coat into her lab coat (buttoning it, because she did not want him so see what she was wearing underneath) and had sat down with a deep sigh and had started to do some paperwork. Well, she had not really concentrated on it, but had been annoyed at Sherlock's behaviour. She had feared she would be stuck here for quite some time. And then he had spoken for the first time since he had entered the lab.

Molly tried to get rid of the irritation by shaking her head.  
"How do you know about my class reunion, Sherlock?"

He did not bother to look up, but only waved a dismissive hand in her direction when he answered, "You are wearing make-up and have done your hair. I can see the black dress poking out under you lab coat – which you have buttoned up, you never button it up. Additionally you are wearing heels. And since you know that neither the corpses nor I care what you look like, you obviously dressed up for a special occasion. Furthermore your yearbook lies over there between some medical reports. Conclusively tonight's your class reunion."

Only now did Sherlock look up from his task at hand and graced her with a forced smile, as if waiting for some applause for his deduction.

It took Molly a moment to take in his words – which had left his mouth in almost supernatural speed.  
He was right, of course. Tonight was her school reunion. And she had mixed feelings about this event.

The pathologist cleared her throat, "Yes, you're right. And that's why... I would appreciate it if you'd continue your experiment tomorrow, for I don't want to be late."  
Molly did not realize it, but she held her breath.

The consulting detective turned in his chair, so that he was facing her and looked closely at her. He squinted while taking in her posture and then stated, "You don't really want to go."

Molly released the breath she had been holding and retorted a tad too quick, "If course I want to go! I'm looking forward to it!"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as if asking, "Are you kidding me?"  
Molly shrugged her shoulders. "I do want to go. That's my chance to prove them wrong, to show them that I have achieved something." She tried to sound convinced, but even to her own ears she sounded stubborn, bordering on desperate.

Sherlock regarded her for a moment, got up and made a few steps towards her. Then he stopped and looked at her again, as if trying to make sense of something.  
"Why?" he asked.  
The concept of caring about people's opinion was new to him. But obviously it was relevant to Molly.

The petite woman shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other – the heels made it look even more awkward. Finally she confessed while staring at those shoes, "I was not very popular at school. They would tease me on a regular basis and call me mousy-Molly."

Sherlock scoffed, "That's stupid!"

His reaction irritated her, and she looked him fiercely in the eye, "I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have been nice to me either. You're not even nice nowadays."

If he was affected by her outburst, he did not show it.  
"That's something entirely different. Additionally I wouldn't have given you a stupid nickname."

Molly, not knowing what to reply, shook her head in frustration.  
"It's getting late, "she said as a way of telling him to let her be.

Sherlock watched her enter her office, only to exit again after a few moments, with her bag in hand and with her coat on again. He had not moved from where she had left him.

Molly was just about to gather up the courage to tell him to leave, when he stated, "You shouldn't go. It will only end in tears."

Molly crossed her arms in front of her chest, getting angrier. Maybe because part of her feared that he was right. Of course, she refused to let him see that.  
Hence she snapped, "Even you can't know that. You're not a fortune-teller."  
He loftily informed her, "Fortune-telling is not a science as opposed to deduction."  
"A science invented by you," Molly snorted and sidestepped him. If he would not leave, fine. She would anyway and tell security to show him out.

"They won't be impressed."  
In spite of herself, Molly stopped just before she reached the door. The way he had said it had been... if it had not been Sherlock Holmes, she would have said his words had held a trace of empathy and concern.

She stood there, her back towards him. And although she did not say anything, he took it as a silent permission to go on, "They won't acknowledge what you've achieved. Most people think the field of pathology is creepy and weird – especially for a woman. They are too dull and ignorant of its worth. Your private life will seem even more uninteresting for them: no husband, no kids, no boyfriend, just a tomcat – the epitome of a single woman in her mid-thirties. The only thing they might find interesting about you might be your acquaintance with me. Not because of you, of course, but because I'm kind of a celebrity. But then again, they probably won't believe you when you tell them you work with me, and you can't tell them how you've helped to fake my death, so..."

Molly stood frozen. For a moment she squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself not to cry. Her mascara was not waterproof. She would not let Sherlock Holmes ruin her make-up with his spiteful words. She took a deep breath and was careful to let her voice sound calm, "That was not nice, Sherlock!"

Sherlock expected her to turn around and look at him with glassy eyes. He knew she was having a hard time holding back the tears. But she did not turn around. She just stood there, his back towards him and he did not dare to admit it, but that was worse than looking at her sad face. Molly Hooper was not supposed to turn her back on him. And suddenly he felt like an arse. His stomach tied into knots. Was that guilt?

Fortunately his voice sounded as unaffected as ever, "What's not nice about telling the truth in order to keep you from getting hurt?"

"Because sometimes the truth hurts more than anything else."  
With that Molly Hooper left the lab with her head bowed, and Sherlock Holmes felt... something.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you all for always being so supportive! It means the world to me!**

 **Also thank you to all the Guests who took the time to review. I appreciate it!**

 **Pipsis was an awesome beta, as always.**

* * *

"You gonna tell me why you are so distracted? I hope it's a case above a 5. Otherwise I'd feel inferior."  
John looked over at his best friend who sat in his chair, being lost in his mind palace. The former army doctor had told him about some weird patient of his, but Sherlock had been miles away.

The consulting detective blinked two times and then focused on his former flat mate.  
"Sorry, you were saying?"

John chuckled and shook his head. "Have you heard anything of what I have said since I stepped into the room?"

"You've said Mary sends her love."

John sighed. "Yeah, that was about 45 minutes ago."

"So, I've heard something of what you've said."

There was a pause in which the blonde man looked expectantly at Sherlock, who did not even bat an eyelash, totally oblivious to the fact that his best friend wanted him to open up. Realizing that the subtle approach was not working (Why had he even bothered trying in the first place?), John leaned a bit forward in his chair and prompted, "So, what's the matter, mate?"

The consulting detective feigned surprise at the question, "What do you mean?"

"Oh, don't give me that! You've been in your mind palace for the whole time I've been here. You are distracted by something."

"Well, obviously not by your stories about this dull patient."

John ignored this statement and said, "And there's this wrinkle between your eyebrows that you get when you think hard about something."

"I get wrinkles?!" Sherlock sounded scandalized and touched the spot between his eyebrows with his index finger, in order to find out if there was any truth in his former flatmate's assertion.

"Sherlock, cut the crap! What's going on?"

John knew his best friend well enough to tell when he was trying to divide his attention.  
John tried to stare him down, which was quite a challenge, Sherlock being the king of staring someone down. The consulting detective slowly rose with a stoic expression on his face, walked over to the window and pretended to look outside. John knew that Sherlock was doing it mostly so he had a reason to turn his back towards him. The former army doctor did not feel offended by it. Sherlock rarely opened up and when, he preferred not facing the other person.

"It's Molly," Sherlock's deep voice pulled John out of his thoughts.

He sat up and edged closer to the edge of the armchair and prompted, "What about her?"

Sherlock made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl. "She's distracting and irritating."

John could not help a deep sigh this time. He knew it was counterproductive, but sometimes it was frustrating to no ends to be best friends with Sherlock Holmes. "What did you do to the poor woman this time?"

That made Sherlock finally turn around and face his former flat mate. He did not hide the anger in his voice, "Why are you assuming that I did something wrong?"

John crossed his arms in front of his chest and arched an eyebrow. "Balance of probability."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mycroft seems to have a bad influence on you."

"It seems Mycroft has a bad influence on everyone he meets."

Sherlock shrugged his shoulder in affirmation and wanted to turn back towards the window, when John's words made him pause, "Back to our initial topic: What happened between you and Molly?"

"Nothing happened," Sherlock replied defensively, "It's just… I gave her well-meant advice, but instead of taking it and thanking me, she was… angry and ran off on the road to ruin." Sherlock made an irritated gesture with his hand.

"On the way to ruin? Aren't you a bit dramatic?"

Sherlock seemed almost appalled, "Not at all. Tonight's her class reunion, and it's going to end in a disaster. She will be devastated and I told her so, but she wouldn't listen."

John tried to put the pieces of information together. He started to get an idea of what could have happened and cringed inwardly.  
"And how did you tell her?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to cock his head and regard his best friend while his eyes narrowed. "I told her the truth, in plain, simple words, so she…"

John interrupted him, leaned back into his armchair and drew a hand over his face in defeat, "Oh boy… I thought we had that talk after Jim from IT."

Sherlock's expression darkened. "He never was Jim from IT."

"You know what I mean."

"No, I don't."

John fought the urge to become angry with Sherlock. It would not help the situation. If anything, it would have made everything worse. He supressed another sigh and concluded instead, "So, bottom line is: You don't want Molly to get hurt."

Sherlock seemed to consider John's conclusion for a moment until he answered hesitantly, "Yes."

John nodded, being glad that his friend had admitted it. He knew he walked on thin ice here, but he had to push Sherlock a bit further – for his own benefit.  
"And why is that so?"

Now the consulting detective groaned in frustration. "Don't make me say it," Sherlock threatened.

The corners of John's mouth twitched, and he had trouble supressing a knowing smile. Sherlock would not have liked that. Not at all.

Now it was Sherlock's turn to sigh deeply. He ruffled his hair in frustration and turned back to look outside the window – or at least he pretended to do so.

John sat up again in his chair, waiting patiently. He knew Sherlock needed a moment to gather his thoughts. John had pushed him as far as he dared; now it was up to his friend to do something.

The silence in the room felt endless and John started to suspect that his best friend had retreated to his mind palace, not to return for the rest of the evening, when suddenly the consulting detective spoke up, "What are you suggesting? How should I proceed?"

John had to hide his surprise. Was Sherlock Holmes really asking for his advice? All evidence was pointing towards this conclusion.

"Maybe help her out?" the former army doctor suggested.

Sherlock whirled around and gesticulated wildly, sounding angry, but John could see that it was his way of covering up his uncertainty. "You want me to go there and be her knight in shining armour?!"

"I would recommend wearing a suit instead of armour – terrible uncomfortable those things – but apart from that, yes. Go, get the girl."

Sherlock arched his eyebrows and remarked condescendingly, "You have watches too many of those romantic films."

John knew better than to retort. Instead he crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned back into his chair once more.

Sherlock huffed annoyed and began to pace, as if that would help him come to a decision.

John watched him from his place, and almost felt a bit sorry for his tormented friend. Admitting that he was not an emotionless machine to himself was one thing, but letting someone else in was something entirely different. It would take him some time to get used to that concept.

After about 20 times walking from the door to the window and back, Sherlock suddenly said, "I don't even know where the class reunion takes place."

It took John a moment to catch up what his friend had said, he had been lost in his own musing. When he did, he stated, "You're Sherlock Holmes. I'm quite certain you can find out."

The detective stopped his pacing and looked at John. But he did not really see him since his thoughts were somewhere else.

John finally spoke up again, "Stop over-thinking it, mate, otherwise the wrinkles will get worse."

That made Sherlock's thoughts finally return to the present, and he asked with a twinkle in his eyes, "Now, where does one find a blacksmith these days?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you all for being the awesome people you are!**

 **** **To Guest (** **one-amber-owl): Dank, danke für deine wunderbaren Wort und deine Fanart ist einfach wunderbar! Du hast wirklich Talent! Ehrlich! Ich habe mich nicht nur sehr gefreut, sondern sie mir auch gleich ausgedruckt und sie ist jetzt das Titelblatt von „Practically Perfect".** **Danke!**

 **And Pipsis: I promise I will continue to describe Molly's dresses ;-) Thank you.**

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"So, you're a real pathologist then?"

"I don't think there's such a thing as an unreal pathologist," Molly could not help but retort sarcastically.

Peter Devon, who lived with his wife and kids in Sussex and worked as a plumber, did nothing to hide his disdain about her job. "Isn't it… I don't know… creepy?"

Molly had a hard time not rolling her eyes at her former classmate's question. She felt herself getting angry, because this annoying voice in her head kept telling her, that so far it had gone just as fortune-teller-Holmes had predicted. She tried to ignore that voice and answered Peter, "No, I don't think so."

Peter couldn't wrap that around his head obviously, "But, you're working with dead people."

Molly shrugged and smiled, "Occupational hazard."

The man's eyebrows almost went into his hairline.

Molly cleared her throat and looked down onto the floor embarrassed. She tried to think of something to say to ease the awkwardness of the situation, when she heard a shrill voice beside her, "Molly Hopper, is that you?!"

The pathologist cringed inwardly. She would have recognized that voice anywhere. Slowly she looked up to face its owner, the woman who had mocked her almost every single day at school: Cynthia Stoker. She didn't look any older than she had when Molly had last seen her. Apparently Cynthia was a fan of plastic surgery.

"Hooper," Molly corrected her, "it's Hooper, not Hopper."

Cynthia waived her perfectly manicured had, "Whatever. So how have you been? Husband, three lovely children?" She looked innocently at the petite pathologist, but Molly could easily detect the spite behind her words. Molly was a specialist in recognizing ulterior motives, she worked with Sherlock Holmes after all.

Even Peter seemed to sense it, because he answered for her, "Molly just told me that she was a pathologist at St. Bart's."

Cynthia made a face. "Quite an... unusual profession for a woman." She made a pause, seemed to consider it and then said sweetly, "But then again, it suits you. You've always been... queer."

Now Molly was definitely angry. At that moment she wished she had Sherlock's skills and could embarrass Cynthia in front of everyone with a brilliant deduction about her Botox addiction or that her husband had an affair with the nanny. But she did not only lack the skills, but also the heart – or rather the absence of it – to do that. She may have been angry, but Molly Hooper was not a spiteful or revengeful person. Therefore she said the only thing that came to her mind that might impress Cynthia (or Peter), "I work together with Sherlock Holmes. Maybe you've heard about him?"

Peter looked seriously impressed for a moment, but of course Cynthia did not so much as bat eyelash. "The detective with the funny hat? No wonder he felt the need to jump off a building if he was working with you." She laughed and nudged Peter in the ribs to join her. The man forced a chuckle, but did not dare to look Molly in the eyes.

Molly felt herself getting worked up and tears of anger sting her eyes. She would not give this ... horrible woman the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

"He did not jump because...," Molly started, but was interrupted by Cynthia, "If you are so close to him, then why were you never mentioned in the papers? I thought he was together with that secretary, what was her name? June, Jenny?"

"Janine," Molly growled, "and they were not... I mean... we are not... I am not...," she stammered and hated herself for it. She knew her face must have been bright red by now – from anger and embarrassment. The petite pathologist felt utterly helpless. Her mind was blank, and she had a hard time holding back the tears. If she didn't get away soon, Cynthia would achieve her goal and make her cry.

Molly swallowed back the lump in her throat and croaked, "Excuse me," and fled the scene. She made her way through the crowd and ignored the confused looks some of her former class mates were giving her.

She pulled at the fabric of her dress. It was a simple black silk material, a little bit sexy, she had thought when she had bought it, but not too revealing. At least, the salesgirl had convinced her it was, and she had paid 80 pounds that she didn't have for it. Now the silky, sexy dress just felt tight and stifling and she fidgeted with the hem, wishing she had worn something longer, or something with a hood, or a coat, or that she hadn't come at all. She wiped her eyes, not caring if she smeared her mascara. It was like Sherlock had said: No one cared what she looked like. Thinking of him only fuelled her anger. She hated that he had been right – again. This evening had gone exactly like he had predicted. How could she have been so naive as to believe that she could impress someone with what she had achieved? Why did she even bother what her former classmates thought of her? She did not even like them. Molly sniffled and opened the door to step outside on the balcony.

Cynthia watched with satisfaction as Molly Hooper practically ran from the room. It was still too easy to make fun of mousy-Molly. She shook her head in disbelief and turned to Peter who stared after the petite woman as well, but looked like he was pitying her. Molly's quick departure had not left the opportunity to interrogate her throughout about her love-life, so Cynthia leaned closer to Peter and asked, "So, did she tell you, is she seeing anyone?"

A deep baritone voice behind her made Cynthia jump, "She sees me on a regular basis."

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 **A/N: There will be fluff... in the next (and last) chapter... I promise...**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you all again for reading, following, favouriting and reviewing.  
Thank you to the Guests, who I cannon PM back. **

**Pipsis, you are wonderful!**

* * *

As Molly stepped out the door on the balcony, the cold wind hit her instantly, and she felt goose bumps rise on her exposed skin. But she didn't care. Better to freeze to death out here than go through any further torture inside. Her tears slowly subsided and she managed to get her breathing back under control. She looked over the illuminated city. The venue was on the South Bank, close to Millennium Bridge and the view from the balcony offered a beautiful sight of London at night. The lights of Houses of Parliament reflected in the dark water of the Thames and the London Eye glowed pink and purple tonight. She marvelled at the thought that the sight of London at night always helped to calm her down. She sighed deeply and wrapped her arms around herself, as a means to keep her warm.

"You look nice tonight," a deep voice behind her said, "also… really cold."

Molly almost jumped. She had not heard anyone approach. She had not even heard the door.

Slowly she turned around. It was indeed Sherlock Holmes standing there – his Belstaff billowing in the wind, assessing her with his usual stoic expression. If her surprise about his sudden appearance showed on her face, he did not give any indication.

"No… I'm... I'm fine." She tried to sound nonchalant and keep herself from shivering, but was failing miserably.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and reached for his coat.

Molly held up a hand. "Really, I'm fine, Sherlock. I don't need your coat."

His brows furrowed. "Who said I was offering it?"

He pulled his coat tighter around himself and rubbed his gloved hands together. "Ah, much better," he said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Molly chuckled, as a gust of wind hit them and she couldn't help but shiver.

She cleared her throat and stared at him expectantly. "Well?"

"Well what?" he played dumb and cocked his head to the side to regard her innocently.

"Are you going to be a gentleman and give me your coat, or what?"

Sherlock sounded appalled, "Are you crazy, it's freezing out here!"

Molly sighed deeply, wrapped her arms tighter around her small frame, in an attempt to warm herself and turned her back towards him.

"Besides, I'm not sure if I want to cover up the view," he said just a tad flirtatiously.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she tried to keep it under control. She was not going to interpret too much into that statement. After all, this was Sherlock Holmes she was dealing with. He did not flirt – without ulterior motives – she knew that from personal experience.

Yet she had a hard time fighting the small smile that played on her lips as she turned back to him and cocked an eyebrow, "So, you'll let me freeze to death?"

The consulting detective regarded her, as if evaluating the situation. His eyes travelled over her body and Molly started to feel warmer despite the cold. She could feel the blush rise on her cheeks and felt naked under his gaze. Suddenly she remembered that she had been crying and her make-up was ruined. She probably looked like a racoon. Well, it was too late now, was it?

Sherlock's mouth twitched and there was something akin to excitement in his eyes. "I have an idea," he finally said.

Molly was almost afraid to ask what his idea was. With Sherlock one never knew… All possible (and impossible) scenarios came to her mind in a matter of seconds, when he took a step towards her and suggested, "We could share?"

Molly was baffled. Expect the unexpected with Sherlock Holmes.

"How do we do that?" she questioned and berated herself the moment the words had left her mouth. It was a stupid question to ask, wasn't it?

Again the detective did the unexpected and did not insult her for her silly comment, but stated, "Like this." He reached forward, took her hand and puller her towards him. Suddenly she was right up against him.

Again Molly's heart skipped a beat and she went stiff. "Sherlock, what... what are you doing?" she stammered, not knowing what had gotten into him.

"Saving your life, apparently. You should be a bit more grateful," he said, as if he was stating that the sky was blue and looked over her shoulder out onto the water, just as she had done a few minutes ago.

She stood motionless with her back against his chest and did not dare to breathe; afraid she would break the spell he was under. His arms were wrapped around her, holding onto the coat in front of her, so that the wind could not get into their little cocoon.

"Don't you feel warmer?" he asked, still acting as if she was the one behaving out of character.

Molly took a deep breath. Yes, she definitely felt a lot warmer. Almost hot.  
"A little bit," she squeaked, willing herself to relax.

Sherlock nodded and his curls brushed against her temple.

They stood like this for a while, Sherlock staring straight ahead and Molly being busy with keeping her heart rate under control, as well as her racing thoughts.

Finally Molly asked THE question, "Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

She felt him shrug, "I told you: Making sure you don't freeze to death."

She rolled her eyes, although she knew he could not see it. "No I mean... Why are you here? At my class reunion."

"I knew it would not go well. So I thought you could use a little... support." He sounded careless, but Molly could tell that he was anything but. His stance was stiff and his jaw clenched ever so slightly.

"Aha," was all Molly could offer.  
She refrained from asking how he had known where the reunion took place – he was Sherlock Holmes.

"I may have realized that..." he paused, as if to gather his thoughts, "the way I tried to warn you about this event was uncalled for. I should have handled it differently."

A small smile played on Molly's lips. "Are you trying to apologize?"

He turned his head to look at her. "No! I mean yes, I..."

Molly more felt than heard his growl. "I had a little chat with Mrs. Stoker," he informed her. His expression was neutral again.

Molly's mouth was slightly agape, dreading to hear what he had done. Not that she felt any sympathy for that woman, but she was surprised that Sherlock would even bother with it.

"I told her – and Mr. Devon, because without witnesses it's only half the fun – that you are the best pathologist with whom I had ever had the privilege to work with and that you are essential to my work."

Molly's mouth opened and closed a few times, no words coming out.

A mischievous twinkle appeared in Sherlock's eyes when he went on, "I also might have added that her husband was already drawing up the divorce paper, because he knew about her affair with her personal trainer and that she would not be able to afford another Botox treatment in the foreseeable future, since according to the ante nuptial agreement she won't get any money."

Molly could not help but smile widely. "Sherlock, you are impossible!" She nudged him in the ribs with her elbow, which made him chuckle.

She looked up at him and studied his face. She wanted to ask him why he had done it, but she did not dare to, she feared the answer.

He regarded her as well, but not with cold eyes. There was something warm in them and he did not look away. He held her gaze.

Suddenly Molly was hyperaware of their close proximity, how his arms encircled her waist, how he held her close and how his chest was pressed against her back. And could it be? She felt his heartbeat on her back, and it was just as erratic as hers.

Her eyes widened fractionally at this realization and a small knowing smile appeared on Sherlock's features.

Molly swallowed hard. She did not dare hope. Shyly she averted her gaze and stated, "This place must be rather boring for you."

Sherlock kept looking down at her, a few stray curls falling into his forehead, "Just now I find this place rather interesting."

Slowly Molly turned back to meet his gaze again. His eyes flickered towards her mouth, and before Molly had any time to contemplate what to do next, she felt his lips on hers. She was so shocked that she did not react at first and only when she felt Sherlock pull back, she stood on tiptoe, craned her neck and kissed him back. She heard Sherlock sigh and felt his arms tighten the embrace.

When they finally pulled apart Molly realized that she had somehow turned in his embrace and was now facing him. She smiled shyly and tried to think of what to say or do now.

Fortunately Sherlock knew exactly what to do. "So, if I am informed correctly, we should probably get back in there and mingle." He said the last word as if it tasted foul.

The pathologist chuckled, "Should we?"

"Isn't that what people do at a class reunion?"

Molly tried to sound nonchalant, "I guess... They mingle, they chat, they dance."

Sherlock's eyes light up, "Dancing sounds acceptable."

He released Molly from his embrace and stepped back. The cold wind hit her full force and she tried to suppress a shiver.

"Sherlock," she reached for his arm as he was about to turn away from her, "Are you... serious?"

He shot her his patented "don't be stupid"-look and offered her his arm, "Now do you want to impress your dull former class mates, or not?"

She made a step towards him and liked arms with him, "You know that tomorrow's tabloids will write that you've got a new girlfriend?"

Sherlock only shrugged and smiled as he pulled her along back inside. "Well, it least this time it's for real."

 **The End**

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 **A/N: To those who know me in person: Yes, this story was inspired by the fact that we have our class reunion in October, but NO I do not share Molly's anxiety about it at all. I had a nice time at school and I am really looking forward to it. Still, I would be happy if Sherlock decided to accompany me ;-)**


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